


Only black holes in the cosmos but always a dawn for our planet.

by awakelesskim



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:41:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2280534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awakelesskim/pseuds/awakelesskim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pipita POV. After the 1st leg of semi-final in the CHAMPIONS LEAGUE on 27th Apr. 2011, the RM striker keeps his eyes sticking to his German teammate and makes a promise to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only black holes in the cosmos but always a dawn for our planet.

**Author's Note:**

> Just for all Madridistas. Title prompted by Sissi's tweet. A bit late but rumours of Pipa's transfer drives it to the fin. Betas and feedbacks are sincerely welcome.

**Title:** Only black holes in the cosmos but always a dawn for our planet.  
**Rating:** G  
**Pairings** : Gonzalo Higuaín/Mesut Özil  
 **Wordcount:** 890  
 **Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable persons, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners and are fictional. I'm in no way associated with said person(s) being depicted. Any resemblance is purely coincidental.  
  
  
  
  
  
He keeps his eyes sticking to the boy, watching him all along.  
  
He's watching him shaking hand with their opponents and having a brief word with the referee of the same origin (and **A BIG FAN** OF PRESIOUS Lionel). He's watching him buzzing around the whole pitch and feeding the ball to the attacking forwards to fire a deathblow even though he has the least chances having it in his professional career as a football player. He's watching him being tackled down out of malice by the most brutal Javier Mascherano and falling in the air but picking himself up in no time and running on ( _while the Barceloners are falling and rolling and crying on the ground before being really touched_ ). He's watching him breaking from the left wing when Victor Valdes barely palms Cristiano's swerving drive into his path but only firing straight at the keeper with the flag stayed down for his offside. He's watching him managing to leave the pitch with a soft but frustrating smile when he is subbed at the break.  
  
He's watching him sitting on the bench next to him, intensively concentrated on the match though mentally and physically exhausted. He's watching him jumping up from the seat to the boundary, yelling to the referee and arguing about the absolutely unfair reds in a mix of angry German, English and Spanish despite his normal shy and soft-spoken manner. He's watching the blush growing in his cheeks along with the desperation when the sucking GOLDEN-BALL-WINNER scores after Pepe's dismiss — _twice, more than enough_ — which completely sentences their death at the feet of Champion. He's watching him lowering his eyelids to bite back the tears threatening to burst from those big dark eyes and offering his hugs to all his teammates off the pitch when the whistle finally ends the whole disaster in Bernabéu.  
  
He's watching him following the team into the locker room with an over-clenched fist revealing his silent protest. He's watching him exchanging short low broken words with Xabi and biting his lower lip when listening to the post-match review from their expressionless coach - who was sent off to the grandstand in the second half - so hard that even drawing a little blood. He's watching him quietly and slowly gathering his stuff in the stony and breathless air weighing heavily down upon everyone in the room. He's watching him drowning himself deep in thought, even failing to response when Karim claps him on the shoulder for the towel or Ángel picks up the iPod slipping from his Nike duffel bag.  
  
He's watching him and that makes him want more than just watching. He wants to tug him closer and hug him tight in his own arms, offering all his comfort and warmth and strength to the boy. He wants to run his fingers through his damp fluffy curls as dark as his eyes with an affectionate impulsive stride. He wants to reach out and unravel the knot of his fingers and thread his own fingers through his to share the bitterness bites deep from his fingertips, to encourage him and back him up as this beloved boy has done to him when he was in his darkest period of his career being blighted by his injury, which led to his subsequent explosion and continual goals in the following games. He wants to caress his blushing cheeks and sweep away all the shadows that remorse and lament cast in his face. He wants to press his lips on his as gently as a falling feather to kiss away the trace of blood and smooth that painful wound. He wants to hold his tiny fragile-like shoulders to stop the slight trembles, standing in front of him and protecting him from all hurt and injustice and misery and other ugly stuffs in this world.  
  
He wants to win. He wants the victory. Their victory. He wants to be the real best, tiring of being the second-best for too long. He wants to start, to fight along with him on the same pitch in the same white against the same opponents (always _ **THE**_ _opponents_ ) and score with his assists and rewritten the result, not just waited on the bench with his hope draining slowly as the time went by and ultimately died out in the final whistle. He wants to win all the battles and obtain all the cups and titles and the glory they deserved as the king. He wants to laugh and yell with him greeted by all the Madridistas proudly and cheerfully instead of being suffocated by the disappointment, frustration and skepticism hung thick in Bernabéu once again. He wants to break this shit-damn curse and end this injustice like the earth will finally has its dawn through a long long dark night, _even too long_.  
  
Gonzalo Higuaín keeps his eyes sticking to Mesut Özil, watching him all along until the young midfielder's lean figure eventually vanished into the dark night of late April. The Argentine striker clenches his fist and makes a promise to himself, for the German boy and for himself, and for the team as well. He will win. They will win. As a champion. As a Madridista. At the top of all glories. They will win, finally breaking through the darkest black holes in the cosmos and bringing the triumphal dawn to the earth.  
  
  
  
fin.  
<20130620／22:20>   



End file.
